Page 36 of Wait for Him

That correction happens surprisingly easily.

Former boyfriend.

There we go. Much cleaner.

I check my watch again and sigh outwardly. “Could you come already? I'd like to get rid of those sheets and get on with my day.”

It's like a cartoon come to life, the way they scramble.

Limbs everywhere, sheets flying, cocks and balls just waving about with nowhere good to go. The two of them are moving very fast while accomplishing absolutely nothing in the way of dignity. Jet lets out a little scream, the poor thing, high and startled, as though I'm the intruder in this scenario and not the woman whose name is on the lease, the mortgage and the deed to the very mattress they've been desecrating.

“Rosie. Baby, it's not—”

I put my hand up, and he stops, which is at least one thing he still does on command.

“Please don't be that guy. It's not what it looks like? Really, David? Limitless options for excuses, and that's the direction you've chosen?”

I let my eyes drop pointedly to the hands he's cupped over himself like a fig leaf with a guilty conscience.

Damn it.

His cock, which was genuinely one of the great pleasures of the last four months, is now retiring from my life via a man named Jet's worst morning.

I'm allowed to mourn it.

I want that entered into the record.

A woman can grieve the amenities of a relationship separately from the relationship itself. These are unrelated accounts.

“Rose, I'm so sorry,” Jet starts, hopping into one pant leg and losing the war with it badly.

I watch him struggle.

Honestly, what is he doing?

Has this grown man never once had to dress himself under pressure? Is this his first ambush? At this point, I almost want to help him find the other leg hole so we can move this along.

David, meanwhile, is still planted in the exact same spot, staring at me like a deer that's heard the shot but hasn't yet connected the sound to its own body.

Seriously, why is he still staring at me? It's becoming concerning.

Putting myself in his shoes, I suppose I should be more visibly devastated about all this. He's clearly waiting for it. He's braced for me to go postal, and to be fair to his expectations, I do have quite a temper when I'm pushed hard enough in the right direction.

But there's nothing.

Or maybe there's too much and my brain has simply closed the gates until further notice.

Maybe I'm in shock. Maybe four months was always destined to end somewhere stupid and my body knew it before my brain got the memo. Who's to say? Not me this morning.

He's still staring at… "Fucking hell. Were you waiting for an engraved invitation? Why are you just standing there staring at me?" I snap.

David opens his mouth, searches it for something worth saying, comes up empty and closes it again. His eyes drop to the floor where the shame seems to live.

Good. Maybe he can pick it up on his way out.

“I need to get to the office.” I gesture across the room at the general scene of the crime. “Strip the bed, toss the sheets and leave the key.”

His head snaps up. “Rose.”